


Clean

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky can't wash away the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the H/C Bingo prompt "Rape/non-con." Set after the episode "Bloodbath," in which Starsky is kidnapped, abused, and almost murdered by cultists. A lot of us think some of that abuse was sexual.

Starsky closed his eyes and turned his face into the spray, grimacing with pleasure. He loved showers, the hot water gushing over him, the steam billowing around him, the feeling of being enclosed in a sensuous, comforting cloud. He was a hedonist when it came to showers, and tonight, in particular, he found himself wanting to stretch it out, make it last, freeze the moment. Because the shower was the easy part.

The other thing scared him.

He wanted to do it – he was _going_ to do it, dammit – but it scared him. He kept seeing his mom’s face, bent over him when he had a bellyache, when he’d eaten too much popcorn at the movies or candy at Coney Island. He kept hearing her voice – “Relax, Davey, it’ll only take longer if you clench up” – and blood would flood his cheeks at the memory.

But he wanted to do it, for Hutch. Because tonight, they were gonna be together again. Starsky had it all planned. He was tired of being afraid, tired of being cold, tired of feeling like he was dead from the waist down. Tired of the fact that, though Hutch had stayed at his apartment every night since it happened, had slept with him every single night, they hadn’t touched. And he was tired of the guilty knowledge that if Hutch did touch him, he probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself from flinching.

Well, all that was over. He was going to put an end to all this bullshit and get things back to normal. But he had to be clean first. That was the most important thing. He had to be clean for Hutch. He knew it was an odd, irrational impulse, and he didn’t understand where it had come from. Certainly not from Hutch. Starsky knew Hutch would take him under any circumstances, would kiss him, taste him, love him no matter what. It was his hang-up, not Hutch’s. He wanted to be clean everywhere, shiny and new, empty and ready to be filled.

A childhood memory flashed through his mind, of his father visiting the synagogue’s _mikveh_ every year just before Yom Kippur for a ritual bath. He smiled at the thought. It wasn’t so different, was it?

Then a different memory surfaced, a much more recent one. A sweet-faced girl pouring water over his head to “purify” him. He shuddered, and soaped his chest vigorously. Gail hadn’t purified him. He was going to do that himself.

He realized the water was cooling, and after a last careful rinse, he turned it off reluctantly and watched the last of it swirl down the drain. He was clean now, clean on the outside. Only one thing left to do.

He slid the shower door open a crack and reached for the box he’d left on the toilet tank. He’d read the instructions several times already, but he read them again. He wanted to be sure he did this right, not because he was concerned about somehow injuring himself, but because he had to make certain that he was clean again. Clean for Hutch.

Satisfied, he took the bottle out of the box and knelt in the bathtub, resting his weight on his knees and elbows. He felt ridiculous already, crouching there stark naked, ass in the air. Then he remembered the last time he’d been in this position, the last people who’d seen him this way, and his stomach lurched.

He folded his arms and lowered his head to rest on them, closing his eyes and breathing rapidly. _They’re not here. Nobody’s here. The door’s locked. Nobody’s gonna see me, or touch me. Nobody but Hutch, when he gets home. And by then I’ll be clean._

After a moment he raised his head, picked up the bottle, and pressed its lubricated tip to his anus.

He hadn’t been touched there since that morning, when Hutch took him to the hospital. The doctor had done it then, gently, clinically, as impersonally as possible. It had hurt, but the shock of what Marcus’s people had done to him had still been so intense that Starsky was almost numb. He’d just lain there on the examining table, knees up, shaking, squeezing his eyes shut against the glare of the overhead light, while the doctor handled him and his mind chanted, _I want Hutch, I want Hutch_ , over and over until it wore a groove in his brain.

Starsky took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles. He was healed now, and the nozzle was small. He wasn’t worried that it would hurt.

As carefully as he could in his awkward position, he slid it in.

He shifted his weight cautiously. It felt strange. Not bad, but not good. Not warm, living flesh, not so big it made him struggle for breath. Not Hutch.

But then, it wasn’t _them_ , either.

He twisted the plastic bottle a little, rotating the tip, feeling the solution slosh beneath his fingers. He gave it a careful squeeze, and a small amount of water flooded in. He could feel it, a gentle, comforting flow. It still felt strange, but now it felt good, too. He smiled, warm with the anticipation of how clean he would be, finally.

He squeezed again, pushing the nozzle a bit deeper, and a hot twinge of pleasure shot through him. His cock gave an eager leap.

He froze.

That was wrong. This wasn’t sex. This wasn’t fun. He didn’t get off on weird shit. He was normal. Okay, he was bisexual, but he was _normal_ bisexual. Enemas were for cleaning, that was all. He didn’t like them, he didn’t want them.

And those creeps of Marcus’s, he hadn’t wanted them, either. They’d done things to him, they’d pushed their filthy dicks into him, they’d put their disgusting mouths all over him, they’d grabbed his cock with their dirty hands and jerked him till he shot off, but he hadn’t wanted them to, he hadn’t wanted to like it, he _hadn’t_ liked it, he’d hated it, even though he’d come. They’d made him come, they’d forced him to, over and over again, he couldn’t help it if they’d touched him just the way he liked, just the way Hutch did….

Starsky dropped the bottle, voiding what little fluid he’d absorbed, and shoved the shower door back. He scrambled out, almost slipping in his haste, and grabbed the towel rack to steady himself. He stood for a long moment, eyes clenched shut, legs trembling, head hot.

_Bad idea. Bad idea. Can’t get clean that way. Can’t get clean at all, maybe._

He opened his eyes and saw a thick blue bath towel in front of him, draped over the rack he was still gripping with white-knuckled hands. He buried his face in it for a moment before using it to dry his dripping body. Then he removed Hutch’s old orange robe from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on. It felt good, warm and calming, like its owner, and Starsky felt his breathing begin to slow.

He left the bathroom and crossed the room to the bed, where he collapsed with a heavy sigh and lay blinking up at the mirrored ceiling. The shadows were lengthening, and he could hear the distant hum of evening traffic. The last time he called, Hutch had said he’d be home by seven. Starsky remembered the tone of his voice on the phone, gentle and concerned, sinking almost to a whisper in an effort not to be overheard in the busy squad room. It had set Starsky’s teeth on edge. He was sick of gentle and concerned. He was sick of Hutch’s hands-off policy. He’d had it up to fucking here with being treated like glass.

The only trouble was, he _felt_ like glass. Like he’d crack into tiny pieces if he didn’t focus all his strength on holding himself together. He’d thought if he could just get clean, it would help, that he’d be strong again.

But even that had turned dirty on him.

He closed his eyes, eager for the oblivion of sleep.

  
*****

  
Hutch closed the front door quietly behind him, glancing quickly around the living area. No Starsky. He noted the closed bedroom door. Lately it seemed Starsky had been asleep more than he’d been awake, and Hutch didn’t want to disturb him. He sighed as he slipped out of his jacket and shoulder holster, feeling the familiar problems of the work day slip away and the new problems, the problems he didn’t know how to deal with, take their place.

He stepped into the kitchen and stowed the chicken soup he’d brought in the refrigerator; he could warm it up if Starsky was hungry. _If._ A few weeks ago, the possibility of Starsky not being interested in dinner would have been a joke. Now it wasn’t so funny.

He went to the bedroom and carefully eased the door open. Starsky was asleep, all right, on top of the sheets, wrapped in Hutch’s bathrobe. Despite his unease, Hutch smiled at the sight. He hadn’t realized how ugly that robe was until the first time he’d seen Starsky wearing it.

He hung his holster and gun in the closet, and was in the process of taking his boots off when he felt the familiar tingle between his shoulder blades. He turned.

Starsky was observing him from the bed through sleepy eyes. “Hey.”

Hutch smiled. “Sorry, I was trying to be quiet.”

“Your feet are too big to be quiet, you know that.” He propped himself on one elbow and gave Hutch a sharp look. “No, you didn’t scare me.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, mildly. He wasn’t going to get drawn into the quit-tiptoeing-around-me-like-I’m-gonna-break argument again.

Starsky lay back and looked at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Hutch said. “You didn’t ask me how my day went.”

Starsky cocked an eye at him. “I didn’t make your dinner or meet you at the door with a martini, either, honey.”

Hutch huffed out a surprised little laugh. Not that it was that funny, it just felt good to hear Starsky cracking wise. There hadn’t been nearly enough of that lately. “And you didn’t kiss me hello. I guess the honeymoon’s over, huh?”

He held his breath for an instant, wondering if he’d gone too far. But Starsky gave him a long, level look, and then held out his arms. Hutch smiled and went to him, and Starsky scooted up to a sitting position.

He kissed Starsky a little tentatively, because he couldn’t help it, while simultaneously cursing himself for his caution, his fear. Starsky made an impatient noise and wound his fingers into Hutch’s hair, crushing their mouths together, kissing back with a ferocity that felt like desperation, a reckless determination to prove a point. It turned Hutch on anyway. He moaned, low in his throat, and pulled Starsky closer, hands slipping inside the orange robe, tongue pressing forward eagerly.

Starsky pulled back suddenly, twisting his head to the side. The hands that had been clutching Hutch’s head dropped to his chest and pushed. Hutch drew back, panting, reluctantly withdrawing his hands from Starsky’s warm flesh. He closed his eyes and damned Simon Marcus to the depths of his soul.

“’M sorry.” Starsky’s voice was rough, an indistinct mumble. He wasn’t looking at Hutch, but at the wall behind him. He stared at it intently, as if trying to peel the paint with his eyes.

“Starsk – ”

Starsky laughed, shortly. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay, right? You don’t mind.”

“You know damn well I mind,” Hutch snapped. “I mind what those filthy bastards did to you, I mind how they hurt you – ” He broke off as Starsky rolled away from him to lie facing the wall.

Hutch sighed. His head was starting to ache.

Because he didn’t know what else to do, he lay down behind Starsky, resting one hand at his partner’s waist, fingers stroking him lightly through the terrycloth. Starsky didn’t flinch.

Well, that was something.

“Is your stomach better?” Hutch asked after a moment.

Starsky’s head moved in a silent nod.

Hutch hesitated. “I told Dobey I thought you’d be better tomorrow. But you don’t have to go in, Starsk. He’ll understand.” He thought privately that Starsky had gone back to work far too soon. The day after he was rescued, one day after he’d lain on a table while a doctor examined him for evidence of sexual assault, Starsky was back at Metro. He worked every day for a week, typing reports, patrolling in the Torino, interviewing snitches, chasing down leads. He talked, joked, ate artery-hardening meals, and generally behaved as though being kidnapped, gang raped, and coming within an inch of death was as life-changing an experience as a mild headache. He didn’t talk about Marcus. He didn’t let Hutch touch him.

The second week, he broke down. There was no obvious trigger, not that Hutch could perceive; they weren’t dealing with any rape cases at the time, and he’d managed to steer Starsky away from news of Marcus and his minions, not that Starsky seemed the least bit interested anyway. But Hutch woke one morning to the sound of his partner being violently sick in the bathroom, and since then Starsky’s demeanor had alternated between sullen silence and hair-trigger hostility, with frequent spells of nausea. He’d called in sick the last two days.

Starsky said nothing, and eventually Hutch sighed and got up. “You want some dinner? I picked up some chicken soup at the deli.”

Starsky didn’t open his eyes. “Not right now.”

Shaking his head, Hutch went to wash up.

The shower door was open. Hutch reached to pull it shut, and saw something lying in the bathtub. He picked the plastic bottle up, and its liquid sloshed.

He stood staring at the object for a moment, torn between puzzlement and worry. He’d never known Starsky to use an enema before. It was something a lot of gay men did on a regular basis, but Starsky had never even mentioned it. Hutch knew he’d been sick, but….

“Starsk?”

Starsky’s reply was toneless. “Yeah?”

“Come in here a minute, will you?”

Starsky appeared in the doorway a moment later, mouth set in an irritated line. “What’s so important I gotta – ” He broke off at the sight of the bottle in Hutch’s hand. “Oh.”

“It was in the bathtub. Starsk – ”

“It’s nothin’.” A flush was creeping into Starsky’s cheeks. “I was just – I wasn’t feeling too good, and I thought it might help.”

“It’s mostly full, though. Didn’t you – ”

“I – the phone rang. You called me, remember? So I didn’t finish….” Starsky trailed off, and in a heartbeat, the defensiveness in his eyes flared into outrage. “What the hell difference does it make? There something wrong with a man takin’ an enema? Something wrong with wantin’ to feel clean for a change?”

“Buddy,” Hutch said, keeping his voice soft, “come on, take it easy.”

But Starsky was practically shouting. “I just wanted to be clean, don’t ya understand? All that dirt, all that scum of theirs, I didn’t want it to touch you, I didn’t want it to get you dirty – ”

 _Oh, God_. “Starsk,” Hutch whispered.

Starsky’s voice was starting to waver dangerously. “I wanted ya to do me tonight, but I had to wash it away first, and then I didn’t – I couldn’t – ”

Hutch pulled Starsky to him, one arm around his waist, the other hand on the back of his head, where he stroked the soft hair. “Shh,” he said. “Shh.”

He felt Starsky shudder convulsively against him, felt his arms wind around him so tightly it hurt. “Couldn’t get clean,” Starsky whispered, and the words dissolved into a long, gasping breath.

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut. “You are clean, babe,” he murmured, around the knot in his throat. “You’re perfect. They’re the dirty ones.”

Starsky said nothing for a long moment, and his breathing came fast and ragged against Hutch’s shoulder. Then he muttered, “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“What?”

Starsky pulled away abruptly. Hutch watched as he grabbed the enema bottle off the counter and poured its contents down the sink before tossing it into the wastebasket. “I liked it,” he said. “I would’ve got off if I’d kept doin’ it. That’s why I didn’t finish.”

Hutch shook his head in confusion. “Starsk, there’s nothing wrong with that. A lot of people like – ”

“I got off when they fucked me, too.” Starsky looked him straight in the eye, as though defying him to offer words of comfort. “You didn’t know that, didja, Hutch? I coulda filled up a bucket, I came so much. They screwed me, and I came, and they left me alone for a while, and then they did it again, and I came again, and then again. Once one of ‘em got behind me and did my ass with his fingers while another one sucked my dick, and then he made me suck his dick while the other one jacked me. And I came, I came every single time. Felt like I was seventeen again. How long was I there, less than twenty-four hours? And I musta come six or seven times. Jeez, Hutch, you shoulda been there. Talk about party time, it was really something else.”

Hutch swallowed the sickness he felt rising in his throat. Starsky was gazing expectantly at him, an almost triumphant expression in his eyes.

_But you haven’t won, babe. I don’t give up that easily._

He licked his dry lips and ignored the painful thudding of his heart. “If you’re trying to make me jealous,” he said, “it’s not working. And if you’re trying to scare me off, you’ll have to do a hell of a lot better.”

Starsky’s eyes dropped. He turned his head away, but Hutch caught him, cupped his face in his hands, and turned it back.

“Look at me,” he said, and waited until Starsky’s unwilling gaze met his. “You’re not dirty. I don’t care what they made you do, I don’t care how many times your body betrayed you, because that’s what it was, Starsk, it was your body, _just_ your body. They touched you in all the right ways, and you reacted the only way you could. You know that, babe. A cop can’t work as many rape cases as we’ve worked without knowing that that happens sometimes. It doesn’t mean you wanted it, it just means you’re human. Everything you did, they made you do. If you can’t accept that – ” He broke off suddenly, voice trembling, and took a deep breath. “You _have_ to accept it, Starsk, because I can’t – I can’t lose you. I can’t give you up, I can’t do without you, I can’t – oh, shit….” He sniffed, hard, and scrubbed violently at his runny nose with one hand.

His eyes had blurred, and he squeezed them shut to keep the tears back. He didn’t see Starsky’s expression, but after a moment he felt a hand on the back of his neck, and then his head was being pulled gently forward. His forehead touched Starsky’s. Starsky’s warm breath fanned his lips.

“S’ okay,” Starsky said, in a whisper. “You ain’t losing me.” He laughed a short, choked laugh. “ _I’m_ losing me.”

Hutch pulled back and laid his hands on Starsky’s shoulders. “Buddy, I’ve said it before, but you need to see someone. Maria, at the rape crisis center – ”

Starsky stiffened. “No.”

“She can help you! She’s helped so many people – ”

“Women,” Starsky corrected. “She’s helped so many _women_.”

“What difference does that – ”

“It makes a shitload of difference!” Starsky shouted. He closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, as though trying to calm himself. “I can’t sit in a woman’s office and talk about – that. I don’t need her, Hutch, I need you. Just you, that’s all. I know I’ve been pretty fucked up, but I’m gonna get better, babe.” His voice softened, and he took Hutch’s face in his hands. “I’m already better. You just gotta help me….”

He kissed Hutch gently, coaxingly. Hutch allowed it for a moment before pulling back.

“I’m not a pill you can take to get well, Starsk,” he said softly, touching Starsky’s face. “I’m not gonna fuck you while you’re gritting your teeth and trying not to throw up. I’ll do anything to help you, babe, but that wouldn’t help. You don’t want me right now – ” he cut off Starsky’s protest with a raised hand “ – you’re just _trying_ to want me. You’re trying to force yourself to feel normal, to ignore what happened. It doesn’t work that way.”

Starsky’s mouth tightened. “What way _does_ it work, huh? You think I ain’t up for it? Jesus Christ, I get off half a dozen times with those fucking creeps of Marcus’s, and you think I can’t get off with you? If I could stick a fucking bottle up my ass and get hot from it – ”

“That’s not the point!” Hutch took a deep breath to steady his voice. “You had a physiological reaction to those things. I don’t want to make you come like that. I don’t want it to be just a – a mechanical thing, don’t you see? Starsk, I want to make love to you, and I can’t do that until you’re ready.”

“When? When’s that gonna be?” Starsky’s voice broke suddenly, painfully. “Jesus, Hutch, when am I gonna feel good again?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Hutch whispered. He pulled Starsky close, pressing his lips to the rough cheek, and thought, _God, if only it were me. If only we could change places._

“But I’ll be with you,” he said, voice husky. “I’ll be with you all the way. We’ll get there soon.”

Starsky said nothing, but Hutch could feel the choked breathing against his neck.

After a moment, Hutch drew back and looked into his partner’s eyes. “Hey,” he said, forcing lightness into his tone. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. How about some of that chicken soup? You think you can handle it?”

Starsky averted his eyes, blinking rapidly. “I, uh, I dunno. Maybe.”

“I’ll go warm it up while you put some clothes on.” He pinched a fold of the orange robe between two fingers, and made a face. “I’ll get sick if I have to look at this ugly thing while I eat.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Starsky’s mouth. “Not my fault you have lousy taste in loungewear, partner.”

Hutch left the room feeling as if ice were breaking up in his chest. It was a big reaction to a small event, he knew. It was a case of grabbing at straws, but he couldn’t help it. How long since he’d seen Starsky smile at all?

In the kitchen, he took his wallet out of his pocket and removed the card he’d picked up at work days ago. _Maria Hernandez_ , it read. _Rape Crisis Counselor_. The words were followed by a phone number, which he almost knew by heart. He and Starsky had referred countless women to that number over the years.

He put the card back in his wallet. He wasn’t going to push, but he hadn’t given up, either. He couldn’t.

He got the chicken soup out of the fridge, emptied it into a pot on the stove, and turned on the burner. Jewish penicillin, Starsky’s mother called it. He stirred it meditatively, watching the tiny bubbles appear around the perimeter of the pot. It couldn’t cure everything, despite Rachel’s claims. But maybe with time, with love, it could help.

  



End file.
